


Snow Day

by Nehszriah



Series: The Teacher, the Media Man, and the President of the United States [12]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Prompt Fic, Sick Fic, Snow Day, and cats being particular, and dinosaur egg oatmeal, kindergarteners being cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5798908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From a prompt on tumblr: Malcolm, Clara, sickfic, you choose who's the fretful victim taken ill in a precarious situation and who's the one swooping in for the hijinx-laden rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Malcolm woke up one chilly morning to find that Clara was not in bed with him, making the mattress seem way too large. He glanced around the room to see whether or not she was dressing or elsewhere—nope. There wasn’t even the sound of the shower running in their ensuite bathroom. Had Daniel had a bad dream…?

The sound of his wife retching in the bathroom answered his question immediately. He swung his legs out of bed and went into the ensuite, bending down and gathering her hair in his fist, gently holding it out of her face.

“Thanks,” she muttered. “What time is it?”

“Five to six.”

“…fuck. I have to get Daniel up and the snow and…”

“No, don’t worry. I’ve got the wee one,” he insisted, kissing the top of her head. “Morning sickness?”

“I wish—something from the signing last night, I think. This is—” She paused to vomit again. “…this is different.”

Feeling Clara’s forehead, Malcolm grimaced as he realized how much of a fever she had, not to mention the full-body chills. He scanned the sinktop in search for a hair tie. Once he had one, he put her hair in a loose ponytail and rubbed her back. “Just stay here, yeah? I’ll get Daniel ready for school and come back when he’s eating to see how you’re doing.”

She nodded in reply, not wanting to speak. He then got up and left the bathroom, navigating the house until he was in their son’s room. Toulouse was sleeping at the end of his bed, as was normal, and the boy was curled up in a ball under his blankets nearly as tight as the cat.

“Rise and shine; time to get ready for school,” Malcolm said, drawing open the curtains. He looked outside and saw that the snow from the night before had buried his car nearly up to the wheel wells, and it was still going. “Ach, fuck it.”

“What’s the matter, Dad?” Daniel wondered sleepily. He stretched and got out of bed, staring out the window with his father. “Wow! Look at all that snow! Do you think I’ve got school?!”

“If you don’t, then I think things might be a wee bit easier today—come on,” Malcolm said. He went downstairs, with a quick detour into his bedroom to grab his cell phone, and checked his messages as he went down the stairs. There was one from Courtney: ‘ _work @ home if u kno whats best 4 u_ ’. Okay, simple enough, but where was the message from…?

Ah, there it was. A message came through from Daniel’s school district as they entered the kitchen, telling him exactly what he and his son wanted to know.

“Would ya look at that? No school until further notice,” Malcolm mentioned. “How about that?”

“Snow day!” Daniel cheered, running a lap around the kitchen table. “Does this mean I go to work with you and Aunt Courtney?!”

“Naw; Aunt Courtney wants me to stay in the home office today,” Malcolm replied. He plucked some oatmeal packets from the cupboard and placed them on the countertop before rummaging around for bowls. “I think some good ol’ porridge will do us good this morning. It’ll stick to the ribs and keep us warm.”

“…but you only have two bowls there,” Daniel noted. “What about Mom?”

“Mam’s sick today, so it’s just us men, I’m afraid.” Malcolm poured some milk into a pan and began to heat it up on the stovetop. “Go put some food in Toulouse’s bowl, yeah?”

“Okay!” Daniel said. He got a can from the cupboard and carefully put it in the can opener. The whirring of the device summoned Toulouse from the upper level, the cat bolting down into the kitchen and eating nearly as soon as the food hit its dish.

Once the can was washed out and in the recycling bin, Daniel sat down in order to stay out of his father’s way. The kindergartener watched as the adult fussed over the milk pan and the kettle and even cutting up some bananas.

“You look worried, Dad,” Daniel frowned. “Is Mom really that sick?”

“She’s got the throw-ups, so yeah, I’m worried,” Malcolm said. “I’m always worried when one of you has the throw-ups.”

“Except Toulouse, because his throw-ups are just hair.”

“Yes—Toulouse’s throw-ups are just some sick joke nature played when Man decided to keep cats around as pets.” Malcolm clicked off the burner and brought the milk pan over to the bowls, pouring it over the oatmeal-and-sugar concoctions that he had prepared in them. He put down the pan and brought the one with little sugar beans in it over to his son along with a plate of cut-up banana. By the time he placed them on the table, the little sugar beans had begun melting away to reveal tiny dinosaur candies.

“Oh no! There’s a meteor coming straight for us! We’re fucked!” Daniel gasped. He took a slice of banana and carefully dropped it atop a dinosaur, making a crashing sound as it landed.

Leaving his boy to eat, Malcolm took a tea tray with a whole pot of chamomile and a plate of sliced banana upstairs to his bedroom. By now Clara had finished vomiting and had made it back to bed, shivering beneath the comforter.

“Guess who has coordinated snow days?” he said, placing the tray on the side-table and sitting on the edge of the mattress. Clara looked up at him with her wide, brown eyes and moaned.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Snow’s dumped at least twice the fucking amount that twat on the telly predicted. She’s usually the good one, too.”

“Oh…” Clara shakily sat up and accepted the tea from her husband. “You know, I should throw this on you for that morning sickness comment—Daniel is a _miracle_.”

“…and that shit tends to come dime a dozen depending on where and when the fuck you look,” he commented. Malcolm saw the tears welling up in her eyes and began to stroke her hair, shushing her affectionately. “Hey, hey, you know I didn’t mean it like that…”

“…then why did you say it? You’re not at work…”

“I’m sorry, Clara. You really are too good for me—you married such a hopeless bastard that it’s amazing you stuck around long enough to get to this point.” Malcolm kissed her on the forehead, worrying his brow as he did so. “You’re still so warm…”

“Took some medicine when I was done losing dinner; that should take effect in another half hour,” she said. “How’s Daniel?”

“He knows you’re sick and that he and I both have snow days,” he replied. He picked up a slice of banana and held it an inch from her mouth, waiting for her permission to feed her. She leaned forward and put the entire slice in her mouth, his fingertips and all, before sucking on it. The way her lips curled around his fingers and her tongue flicked made him know she had forgiven him.

“Mom? How are you feeling?” Daniel asked. The adults glanced towards their bedroom door to see their son standing in the hall, looking in while still dressed in his pajamas. Malcolm took his hand away from his wife’s mouth, while Clara took a sip of tea to clear her throat.

“I’m doing a little better,” she said. “Did Dad tell you what I’m sick with?”

“Throw-ups.”

“Well, I’m not throwing up now, so that’s an improvement.”

“Go get dressed and you can play outside in the snow while I clear the drive, yeah?” Malcolm suggested.

“Okay! Get better, Mom!” With that, Daniel dashed towards his room, leaving his parents alone.

“You’ve got a good boy there, Mam,” Malcolm said.

“Only because his da helps reinforce what I teach him,” she smirked. “Go ahead; I’ll be fine for now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Shedding his pajamas, Malcolm dressed in the warmest jumper and corduroy pants he could find. He pulled on a couple pairs of thick socks and went down to the side door, ready to pull on his boots. They weren’t there, however, which was puzzling.

A giggle behind the kitchen island alerted him to another presence and he went over, catching Daniel crouched down wearing a bright yellow snowsuit and a pair of boots that looked gigantic on him. Malcolm scooped him up right out of the boots and tickled him in the sides, causing the boy to screech. He put him down and watched as he scurried off towards the front door, where his boots were kept, and smiled to himself.

‘ _Chicken soup_ ,’ Malcolm thought as he laced up his boots and layered himself up with a scarf, hat, and thick coat. ‘ _I still have some raw chicken from the other day that’s not bad yet, so I think that will be good for tonight. That and some of those tube-rolls, all nice and warm; yeah, that’ll do_.’ He went outside and trudged over towards the garage, forcing his way through knee-high snow that wasn’t going to stop in the slightest. The snowblower was, of course, refusing to work again, making him kick it and curse up a storm.

“Be careful, Dad, or Mrs. Rodriguez might hear you!” Daniel laughed from the yard. Malcolm glanced over towards his son and saw the boy tumbling about, climbing up on the covered patio furniture and jumping off into the pristine snowfall that went higher than the kindergartener’s waist.

“…and what the fuck would Mrs. Rodriguez do if she heard me?” he posed. So what if the old crone next door heard? “Bend me over her knee for a good smacking?” Chances were she was rolled up in several different blankets and spouting off something about needing to winter at her sister’s in Miami.

“She did to her son! Sophia told me so!”

“Sophia’s got a healthy fear of her abuela, and it wouldn’t surprise me if it was true, but I’m _not_ her son. The only kids parents can bend over their knee are their own.”

Daniel popped his head from a snowbank and grinned at his father. “Mom dared her when we were dropping Sophia off two days ago! They agree your mouth needs a good rinsing.”

“…and are they going to use Dial, Irish Spring, or Lifebouy?”

“The soap Sophia’s dad uses after he works on the lawnmower! That one has rocks in it!”

“You don’t say…?” Malcolm looked up at the window of his bedroom, seeing Clara in the window. He scowled and waved at her, which she returned as a flip of the bird and a cheery smile. Grumbling, he finally got the snowblower working and aimed the chute so it tossed snow all over Daniel as it went by him.

Yes, he was going to make chicken soup for dinner, but lunch was probably going to be a vat of cocoa and ham sandwiches piping hot from the microwave and Clara was going to be lucky if she got rice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still don't think this is going to carry for too much longer, if it does at all, so please don't be surprised if this is it.
> 
> Still contains people being sick.

“Mmmm… nap time… what sick bastard was the one that thought of nap time?” Malcolm purred. He was laying in bed with Clara snuggled into his side, their son curled up on the couch downstairs in a pile of blankets, pillows, and cat, and everything was quiet.

“Probably a man with a very level head on his shoulders,” she replied. She’d kept everything else down so far, but the bathroom door was still open in case she needed to vomit up her tea and banana from earlier. Snow was still blowing outside and holding steady in a refusal to let up any time soon. “You know, this isn’t going to last. We should take advantage of it while we can.”

“Not while you’ve got communicable diseases, sweetheart,” he replied, kissing the top of her head. “All I know is this is a rare treat, us relaxing like this, and even just a lie-in is alright by me.”

“Sounds like someone’s getting lazy in his old age,” she snickered. Clara jabbed Malcolm’s tummy with her finger, finding it as soft and squishy as she liked it. “Finally get to be a dad and it all gets sapped out of you.”

“That fucking snowblower is what sapped it out of me,” he scowled. “Pity I can’t run over colleagues with it, or borrow Angelo’s wood chipper. It still amazes me how this country offers so much in the way of easily-accessible dismemberment equipment.”

“…and it still amazes me that no one’s pinned you for murder yet,” she shot back. The cell phone on the nightstand began chirping. “Ugh—Go Go Power Rangers.”

“If it were any other person I’d let it go,” he said in earnest. He reached over across her and snatched the phone, answering it quickly. “Better be good, Court.”

“ _Are you watching CNN?_ ” Courtney asked. She was using her false American drawl, which definitely caught his attention.

“I will be in a tic.” Malcolm separated himself from Clara and reached for the television remote, flicking the device on. A rival candidate was giving an interview, lower third screaming “BRITISH INVASION?”, and explaining how what America needs is not to be like the United Kingdom.

“ _Malcolm? You there?_ ”

“Fucking dandy ponce-arse; I am going to dig up the most vile shit I can manage,” he spat. “For fuck’s sake—has this cunt ever looked in a political science textbook?!”

“ _Teaches it at Dartmouth, higher levels_.”

“Well the Dartmouth’s going to need a new fucking professor by the end of the week, or their dean is going to be out on the curb to boot.” He hung up and kissed the tip of Clara’s nose. “Work calls—sorry love.”

“Go on, put the bread on the table,” she nodded, sliding back underneath the blankets for warmth.

“Hey, I thought that’s what you did.”

“So what… this is all for your health?”

“The Great White Bollocking Shark can’t stop for more than four hours or else he dies,” he joked.

With that he was off, ready, yet unwilling, to return to his home office.

* * *

A few hours passed and things were in-motion. It was a complete, utter, _devastating_ smear campaign, if Malcolm would cheerily admit, and all that now needed to be done was to sit back and enjoy the show. Actually, he wanted to enjoy it from the comfort of his bed, with his wife in his arms, so he went back to the bedroom to find Clara sleeping sitting up against the headboard. Toulouse was curled up next to her, which frankly irritated him enough to discard the cat in his basket, _where the damn thing belonged instead of the bed_ , and curled up along Clara’s legs, placing his head in her lap. The television was still on, though muted, which gave him comfort as he began to drift off to sleep.

“Dad?” came Daniel’s tiny voice. Malcolm kept his eyes shut, speaking into Clara’s thighs.

“Not now, son. Can’t you play with Toulouse or something?”

“I wanna go outside and play with Sophia.”

“You can’t just go outside and play with the neighbors these days—besides, what if Sophia doesn’t want to play?”

“…but I _do_ want to play, Mr. Tucker!” Malcolm’s eyes cracked open in irritation and glanced over his shoulder to see his son standing next to his classmate and their neighbor, Sophia.

“Does Abuela know you’re here?” he growled.

“Yes!” she replied, her cheer dampened by neither the weather nor his mood. “I have my boots and mittens and hat and scarf and snowsuit all downstairs!”

“I thought I remember Carlotta saying something about your family not being designed for this weather, which is why she stays indoors as much as possible.”

“That’s just Abuela being _silly_ , Mr. Tucker! _She’s_ the one who doesn’t like snow!”

“Well, she’s earned that right, being Abuela and all,” Malcolm muttered. He unwillingly rolled out of bed and followed the children down the stairs.

Once he was sure the kids were bundled up properly, he allowed them to dash into the yard. Toulouse was not far behind them, though he skittered back in almost immediately, a ball of fury and contempt.

“If Carlotta does make good on her threat to move to Miami, something tells me you’d gladly go with her,” Malcolm snarked. Toulouse sulked away and left the man to pull on his own snow gear and return to the outside, where he once again fought with the snowblower in order to clear all the snow that had fallen in place of what he had removed that morning.

He pelted the children with a fury of mechanically-moved ice-flakes and went inside to make them all some more hot chocolate. There were some place-and-bake cookie dough bits still in the fridge, so he made those as a surprise. The kids ate them up, figuratively and literally, and before Malcolm knew it, the neighbor was calling him asking for her granddaughter back.

“Alright Sophia—time to go home,” he said, hanging up the phone.

“Aww… do I have to, Mr. Tucker?” the child whined.

“Yeah, Dad… can’t Sophia stay for dinner?”

“Nope, not with Mam being stuck in bed for the day,” he insisted. “Now come on there, Daniel; get your shit on and you can walk the lady home.”

“Okay…”

“…and what do we say about Tucker Terms, Sophia?”

“They stay the fuck here!”

“That’s a good lass—alright kids, let’s get a move on before Abuela goes telenova on us.”

That got the kids moving, hurriedly pulling on their snow things. Malcolm watched as his son escorted their neighbor home, holding hands (because that’s what kindergarteners _did_ , he kept on telling himself), and congratulated the boy on a job well-done upon his return. His reward was his favorite fluffy blanket straight from the dryer and his favorite movie, _Cats Don’t Dance_ , as dinner was being prepared.

Food, dishwasher, and even a bath, and Daniel began to get droopy-eyed. His father picked him up and carried him to bed, placing him down for an early night’s sleep. Malcolm then went back downstairs and prepared tea, also getting crackers and other nibbles that were sure to not upset his wife’s stomach, bringing the tray up to Clara.

“There you are,” she said as he walked into their bedroom. She was still curled up under the blankets with the news on, watching contently as her husband’s damage control was working wonders. “Are you and Courtney going to conference later tonight about any statement she needs to put out?”

“She knows I trust her, and if anything happens in the meantime to fuck up what she’s got, she knows she can always call me,” he said. He sat down on the mattress and poured her some tea. “Kid’s down, so how’s Mam?”

“Better—haven’t vomited since lunch.”

“That’s good.”

“I don’t think I should really be doing anything too strenuous though.”

“…so no sex?”

“Not tonight, no,” she chuckled, tapping his nose.

It took a bit of maneuvering and folding of limbs, but Malcolm was able to place his head in Clara’s lap again, arms wrapped around her, snuggling in without disturbing the tea tray. She scratched his scalp idly, both watching the pundits pointlessly argue about nothing. Everything was calm and quiet until Daniel’s panicked voice cut through the air.

“D-Daddy…?!” the boy sobbed. “C-Come here, please!”

“Five on a bad dream,” Clara muttered into her tea.

“I’ve got Toulouse kneading the goddamned blanket again,” Malcolm replied. He kissed her forehead and shuffled down the hall to their son’s room, only to find that neither of them had been right. Apparently Daniel had caught whatever Clara had, for there was a puddle of what used to be noodles and chicken broth next to the bed where his son was whimpering.

 _Fuck_ ; he was going to be up all night with the kid. **_Fuckity-fuck_** ; he was going to have to text Angelo and Yvette to make sure they watched Sophia. Being a parent could really be shitastic sometimes.


End file.
